‘when it rains’

note: this is not about the breakup of a romantic relationship.

i just happen to love in a big way all the people in my life.

you have been gone

so why

is this goodbye so hard.

you are connected to nothing now, except my broken heart.

which i have stapled back together.

it is crude, but does the job

although, i admit, i’m tired of the way the sutures rub

against unexpected memories

who uninvited call. their rough, persistent knocking

rattles pictures on the wall

that i had hung to

fill the void

that lingered when you left.

perhaps they were substitutions but, i took what i could get

when the waterstains became

like old familiar friends;

points in conversations before i saw the end

of everything i trusted

in every thing you said.

the lines i carried with me and let sleep in my head

under blankets of indifference

to every fault you wore,

like i could make a difference

at the corner store with a bottle of compassion

to be poured into your soul

as if small town deals and passion

would make you want to know

that i don’t care for this vivid pain to show.

still, i love the Sun more

when it rains.

‘poured’ taken from 22:14 in the psalms.

flowery spam

there is a lot of spam that arrives daily when you take on a blog.  i’m often not sure what the point of an individual message is, but occasionally i skim through a day’s worth just to see what’s in there. so, the following poetry is brought to you by an anonymous computer program in some unknown cyber location somewhere that generates blog spam. ( i changed the spacing and punctuation and omitted the capital letters, but otherwise this is just the way it came to me.)  not sure just what it means, but it does seem to have something to say.

“sleep that knits

in the raveled sleeve associated with care –

the actual death of each day’s existence.

aching labor’s bath (a balm associated with hurt);

chief nourisher in life’s banquet.”

‘banquet’ from 22:8-10 in matthew.

rocks found under a clear blue sky, warmed by the summer sun in ocean park, maine.


the glint

of the cold,

it blinds me.


in its glare

i lose all sight.




a sliver of moon,

hope drips down

and the steady sound

holds me, tight.


how quickly

are my thoughts

buried, set aside

… by what is seen

… by what has been

until they are

nearly forgotten.



the dirt,

grounded by it’s very nature,


‘thaw’ taken from 6:15-17 of job.

inspired by my friend j’s new venture: green knitting, teaching and literature all in one.

‘the hold on bag’

this clever rhyme was written by roxanne (embroiderybee).

she captures, better than i could, the wait.

A Talitha bag that’s secret;
I ‘ve been told to sit and wait
For instructions so mysterious,
It makes me salivate.

I’m doggone tired of waiting
And I’m pressured to the bone.
I want to Quench my thirst to knit.
I’m sure I’m not alone.

This bag should be named ”Hold On”
As I clutch my yarn and cry.
There’s nothing worse than waiting,
Like my grass that grows to die.

With lots of time to ponder,
I keep practicing my gauge.
I’ll soon be tired of Stockinette,
Hope cables will be the rage.

Now, please forgive my Whimper
As I blow off lots of steam.
I’m sure this KAL will be
The bag that’s in my dream.

if you’re not signed up and would like to knit along, you can do so at ravelry here.

or reply to this post and i’ll add you to the official list.

check appalachian yarns or ravelry for the

first clue, april 27th.

12 days to go…

‘wait’ taken from 5:3 in the psalms.


when we get our hands

on breast cancer, we’re going to

punch it

strangle it

kick it and spit on it

choke it and pummel it until it’s good and dead.

not just horror movie dead

but really, truly dead.

and then we’re going to tie a pink ribbon on it.

by susan g. komen for the cure

‘spit’ taken from 8:23 of mark.

halfway down

i am working on a bundle of things right now and they are all hush, hush.

so, i have dubbed this ‘poetry’ week.

this is poetry by my definition,

maybe not yours,

but fun nonetheless.

halfway down the stairs

is a stair

where i sit.

there isn’t any other stair quite like


i’m not at the bottom,

i’m not at the top;

so this is the stair


i always


‘stop’ taken from 37:7 in the book of job.

this piece of ‘halfway down’ by a. a. milne.


it is one exquisite cage

where we sit kindly with our rage

sipping tea,

from antique porcelain cups.


we cross our knees as we were taught

knowing precisely what we ought;

making sure our pretty chins

are always up.


but we are never satisfied.

no, we are barely pacified.


then faint, we overhear

blowing in from damper rooms

notes so strong, so clear

in almost familiar tunes.


as nearly comes a feeling

which vaguely we remember,

but can’t name upon rehearing

(perhaps ‘august’ or ‘december’).


it unnerves us

we recall

as we site here with it all,

surrounded by exactly what we wanted.


we ourselves did drop the ball.

the sway began there with the fall

of this elusive thing

which now remains to taunt us;


how by it’s mere existence

labels darkly our resistance

as the very rope that binds us

into our own persistence.


left, unprotected.

somehow rightly, disconnected

from what we really need.


‘satisfied’ taken from 59:15 of the psalms.